


La lune et l'océan.

by MyDarkSideWearsPink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Magic, F/M, Old Magic, Veela Magic, Veela rituals, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDarkSideWearsPink/pseuds/MyDarkSideWearsPink
Summary: Fleur, the moon, and the ocean : three moments to come to terms with her veela legacy.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley
Kudos: 12





	La lune et l'océan.

𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫 ;

⠀⠀  
Fleur Delacour is very young when she understands she is different.

But she is very young, after all, when she notices people look at her differently. Men, especially. 

She always knew she was pretty. How couldn’t she? It’s obvious in the way Papa’s guests exclaim ‘’quelle jolie petite fille !‘’ , when they’re having a fancy dinner party and she comes in her night-gown to say Bonne nuit (even at five, she understands that Papa is showing her off, but she doesn’t mind). It’s obvious in the delighted way Maman plays with her silvery locks when she braids it each morning before school, marvelling at their softness between her fingers (Maman’s hair is nothing like Fleur’s or Grand-Maman’s, after all). It’s obvious in the way the boys fight each other to be the prince who’ll get to deliver her from the monsters, and she wonders why she is different. 

The answer comes one summer, the night of her seventh birthday. They’re at the house in Bretagne, the family mansion by the beach, and it’s Fleur’s favourite place in the world. Her nights are peaceful there, her window wide open and the sound of the waves rocking her to sleep.

That night, her grand-mother creeps in the room, and takes her in her arms, gently ripping the child from the comfort of her bed. Fleur keeps her eyes closed, wrapping her delicate arms around the woman in a familiar embrace, and she lets herself be carried outside, to the beach.

Grand-Maman sits down the sand, but never lets her go. The little girl is overwhelmed by the imposing presence of the old veela, drowning in her comforting scent, but she’s feeling perfectly safe, there. In the warmth of the person who knows her best, she knows nothing bad can ever happen to her.

Tiny fingers play with the long braids of pristine white (they used to be silver blond, like hers), but Grand-Maman catches them and tells Fleur she is, indeed, different.

“Je suis une sorcière." The child replies, but she's always known that; this is hardly a secret. Grand-Maman smiles, and it's a smile that people have described as scary, but it brings comfort to Fleur. “Non,” Grand-Maman says, because Fleur is more than that. "Tu es une vélane." Her eyes have a peculiar sparkle in them when she looks down at the child, and her skin has a silvery glow, seemingly shining as brightly as the moon itself under its glorious light. Fleur has always thought Grand-Maman was the most beautiful person on Earth, but that night, the sight of her is mind-blowing, mesmerizing, enchanting – lethal. Not human. 

Grand-Maman presses their naked arms together, keeping the tiny fingers in her strong grip, and as she looks down to where their skins meet, Fleur understands. They're just the same. She’s glowing, as well. 

She's part of something way bigger, Grand-Maman says, a magic that witches and wizards have long forgotten. A magic as old as the ocean, as old as the moon. "Je t'apprendrai," Grand-maman says, and so she does.

She talks, and she talks, that night, and Fleur wants to close her eyes and sleep, badly, but she can't, because she's hanging upon her grand-mother's every word, upon this story, /their/ story, and all the secrets veela have passed on to their daughters for centuries. An ancient ritual, complex and powerful, beautiful and dangerous, that few women understand, that most men can never imagine. The secret to life, to death. A secret of love, of faith.

The silver of their hair shine as bright as the full moon and its reflection on the ocean that night. Grand-Maman walks back to the house, but Fleur refuses to follow ; she will stay here a couple more minutes. After everything she’s learned, she needs a little time for herself, and nothing has a soothing effect on her like the moon and the ocean do.

There's always been a part of her missing, Fleur thinks, but then, underneath the moon and by the ocean, she thinks she could find it someday.

⠀  
𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝é𝐦𝐢𝐞 𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐞 𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐱𝐛â𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐬 ;

It’s the middle of the night, but Fleur has never had trouble sneaking out of school before.

This time, she is alone, as alone as she always feels. She’s an outsider, she knows, even though she’s the most popular girl at school, and she draws people in like moths are drawn to a flame that will burn them up. It’s the allure, she knows, and by the time she reaches the coast near the school she used to love, tears are rolling down her pale cheeks to disappear in the crook of her neck.

This time she is alone, as she wants to be, until she isn’t, because Gabrielle stands there, standing in nothing but her thin nightdress, her youth form looking so absurdly small in comparison to the greatness of the moon above her. 

Of course, she has followed, because Gabrielle knows Fleur better than anyone and Fleur loves her the most. A last tear rolls down her cheek, capturing the light from the moon, and Gabrielle raises a finger to stop its race on her skin. She smiles, a tiny smile that is yet enough to light up any room she walks in, in Fleur’s opinion, and that smile is enough to fill her heart with love, but Gabrielle doesn’t understand. She can’t understand, she’s barely older than Fleur was when she first heard the word veela. A child.

Fleur is no child, not anymore. She is seventeen, she has known a man's love, and she has known women's love, and she's lost all of them. And yet, when her sister curls against her, she realises it was never love. It was a parody, a flock of moth drawn to a fire that wasn’t truly her, a fire that burns too much to allow anyone to get near. Fleur wonders if someday, someone will be brave enough to get near.

Gabrielle is a child still, while Fleur is on the verge of womanhood, but they’re sisters and they share everything ; that night, they share their secrets, what it is like to carry that legacy they didn’t ask for.

Now, she understands Grand-Maman's words. Her magic is worth more than that.

It's a gift, or it's a curse, and this solely depends on how she chooses to see it.

It's both, she decides.

It’s a blessing, because she has something no one else has. It's a curse, because she's let the allure guide her life, because she's used it when she shouldn't have and it broke her heart. 

It's a blessing, because in a few hours she'll fly for the greatest adventure of her life, and Madame Maxime is putting all her hopes in her. It’s a curse, because most don’t believe she can do it but she knows, she can feel it in her veins, it's her name that will come out of the flames. And, whether she wins that Tournament or not, it won’t matter. She’s worth more than that.

There's always been a part of her missing, Fleur thinks, but then, underneath the moon and by the ocean, she knows she will have to fight for it, and she’s ready.

𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 ; 

The moon was full just the night before, but it's still almost round, and it shines brightly enough to light the path from the cottage to the water. The moon owns a soothing beauty nothing else can match, she thinks, not for the first time, and not for the first time she wonders how something so magnificent can bring their lives so much suffering. 

He's in pain still, that brave husband of hers, but he won't show it, clenching his teeth as he carries all three children at once in an hazardous manner. A smiles curls at her lips when she hears them laugh, equally fond and concerned. She trails behind, saying nothing, and when the children release their father to run into the night towards the water, she joins him, silently helping him to sit down the ground, and makes a bed of sorts around him, conjuring the blankets and pillows from their bed with a flick of her wand.

It’s a pleasant night, the quiet respite William needs, and the comfortable silence is only broken by the sound of the waves crashing on the sand and a toddler’s laughter now and then. 

They fall asleep there in a tangle of limbs, the five of them huddled together for warmth, so close she can't tell whose tiny chubby hand is clinging to her fingers through the sleep, and whose warm breath is on her neck, or whose soft and flowery baby scent she smells. Fleur doesn't sleep. She waits. She waits, and when she recognises her husband's breathing as a sign of a slumber so deep that nothing can shake him off it, she separates herself from his warmth, delicately putting her youngest in her place, and she stands up.

An arm curls around Dominique's waist, moving her to sit on her laps, and the other hand tugs Victoire to her side, gently. And there, underneath the silver moon by the ocean, Fleur gathers both juvenile bodies in her embrace, and she presses both arms against their own. Skin against skin. Victoire’s isn’t pale as her own, and Dominique’s is covered with a constellation of freckles, but they shine as bright as the moon above their heads. Just like hers. 

In a whisper, sparing just a glance for the two silhouettes lying a few feet away, Fleur talks. She talks, and talks, and her daughters listen as they learn their secrets. The secrets all veela know. The secrets to life, to death, to love, a magic as old as the universe.

There's always been a part of her missing, but right now, underneath the moon and by the ocean, she knows she has found it at last.


End file.
